


The Ghosts of Sherwood

by ShinySherlock



Category: Robin Hood (Traditional), Robin Hood - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 12th Century, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Robin Hood, Archery, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Castles, Disguise, Drama, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Johnlock, F/F, F/M, Forests, Genderfluid Character, Hoodlock, I will add relevant tags as we go along, M/M, Revenge, Romance, Swordplay, The rating may be adjusted as well once we get to the sexy bits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:32:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/pseuds/ShinySherlock
Summary: John of Locksley returns from the Third Crusade to find what he thought of as home has changed forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here we go . . . This is the BBC Sherlock characters fused with a Robin Hood setting, a historical AU johnlock longfic with lots of adventure. I've mashed up many variations of the Robin Hood legend (including the BBC Robin Hood and the Prince of Thieves film) so it will not adhere to any one version. Can't promise a specific schedule for posting, but I will do my best, and rest assured, there is an entire plot planned out and a whole team of betas to kick my butt. Thank yous already to everyone who has shown interest in this idea! If you have questions about anything (tags, warnings, general curiosity), you can always ask me on tumblr. ♥♥♥

_Fall, 1191_

He was ill-prepared for a homecoming.

No shock, that, considering his return home had been prompted by a Saracen arrow, the wound enough to waylay him and eventually send him, damaged and expendable, back to England. He shifted the strap of his rucksack he carried and continued walking, ignoring the strain on his healed but weary left shoulder, ignoring everything but the path leading him home.

The path itself was the southern road, half obscured by leaf litter skirting along the edge of the great forest, following the River Trent towards Nottingham. John had been the lone traveler most of the day, only one or two wagons passing him as he trudged along. Neither driver had stopped, and only one of them acknowledged John at all, giving him a tight nod as he drove on. Had John cared, he might have noted the change--travelers this close to Nottingham were usually friendlier--but he had but one objective, his mind focused on nothing else.

The sun hung low in the clear sky, and though it shone bright, a chill permeated the air, and John despaired of reaching Locksley by nightfall. The idea of spending yet another night in the forest, further delaying his homecoming, made him cross, and he moved stubbornly on though the feet inside his worn boots felt leaden. He was almost home; he could read it in the trees, the curve of the river.

The soft thump of hoofbeats behind him made him stop.

A rider approached, slowing his stallion’s ambling gait to a walk as he neared John. He was striking in appearance, brown hair short and handsome face clean shaven, his tall figure trim and strong beneath the black woolen cloak he wore. John dropped his gaze and dipped his chin, though not before noting the man’s sword at his hip, the dagger stowed in his boot.

“Good day, soldier.”

The red cruciform insignia embroidered on John’s cloak announced his station, but John wondered sometimes if he’d still be easily identified as a soldier even without the cloak, army life having seeped into his very bones.

“My lord.”

“Come now. Let me see your face, that I might know you,” the man said. His voice had an intimacy to it, as though he were smiling, but something about him made John’s senses tingle to alertness. John looked up, allowing his face to be seen from beneath the hood of the woolen cloak. Grey-green eyes assessed him, flicking over his features, his form, lingering over bow and sword, until the man seemed satisfied.

“Your name, soldier.” Said like a man who was accustomed to being obeyed.

“John. Of Locksley, sir.”

The man held his gaze another uncomfortable moment, and, seeming to decide something about John, leaned back, sitting up straighter in his saddle. “You’re nearly home, John of Locksley.”

John already knew this; he could have easily told the man exactly how long it would take to reach his home from here, but he simply gave a nod.

The man looked forward along the path and silently cued his horse to move on. “Shall we travel together a moment? I would hear news of the Holy Land.”

John moved to catch up. “Of course . . . my lord.” John doubted he’d be of use--it’d taken him over a month to travel this far, and he’d been languishing in a field hospital with a fever for weeks before that--but the man didn’t seem the sort to be denied.

The man noticed John’s hesitation at the title, and tipped his head slightly. “Sir Moran of Gisborne.”

John did not recognize the name of either man or town. He’d been away for a long time, however, and the knowledge that much had changed in his absence sat like an anvil in his belly.

“How does our king, with his . . . _crusade_?”

“Well enough, I suppose, my lord.”

This earned John a disapproving frown.

“It’s war. It’s a bloody, messy business,” John grudgingly elaborated, loathe to talk about it at all. “Hard to know when to call it successful.” It had been a long time since he had seen anything good come of the war.

Gisborne raised an eyebrow. “Our success lies in conquering the infidel and claiming the Holy Land in the name of Our Lord,” he said as if by rote. To John’s ears, the words sounded practiced and hollow.

Seeing that John would not elaborate, Gisborne turned away to face the road again and remained silent a moment. John took advantage of the time, taking in details. Gisborne’s black clothing accentuated his tall, lean frame, the fitted breeches and surcoat emphasizing his physique. His weapons appeared well-used but well-cared for, the pommel of his sword shining, the leather sheath oiled and in good repair. Beyond that, there was something about Gisborne’s bearing that signaled controlled power. Like a cat, he appeared unconcerned, but—John could see—he was very much alert. John suspected he’d be a fierce adversary in a fight.

They came to a split in the road, part of the path turning sharply to the left toward Locksley, the main road continuing northward. John paused as the space between them widened.

Gisborne turned his head, looking John over one last time, and John met the man’s eyes directly, unable to observe niceties and conceal his dislike. Yet Gisborne seemed amused rather than offended. “A good homecoming to you, John of Locksley.”

Unsettled by the knowing grin on Gisborne’s lips, John gave him only a nod.

“God save the king,” Gisborne said, and then chuckled as he heeled his horse into a canter.

A chill settled over John that had nothing to do with the cool autumn evening.

* * *

The sun’s power waned, and the orange light filtering through the trees made the forest darker still. But John knew these woods, grew up in them, could find his way home easily on a moonless night. Each tree, each blade of grass seemed to welcome him, and despite his exhaustion he quickened his pace.

The light changed, the trees thinning out, and as he crested the low, familiar rise, he stopped.

Locksley.

A tiny village to anyone else’s eyes, it was hardly impressive--the simple manor house where Lord Stamford lived, several smaller, thatched-roof houses arranged around a center clearing, the rickety lookout tower to the east, the little pond in the west.

It looked the same as when he’d left, impossibly so, and John moved forward, descending the little hill with overwhelming relief blooming in his heart. Life here had never been easy or perfect, but it was home, a home he had been away from for far too long.

Few people were about, but John, his objective so near, did not stop to wonder at the quiet. He barely noticed the curious glances or sad frowns.

He was only a few paces from the gate of his home when a familiar face presented itself.

“John!”

Turning, John saw a short, smiling man approaching him, but couldn’t for the life of him place him, and he squinted, trying to remember.

“John! It’s me, Stamford!”

John couldn’t help his eyes widening. Lord Stamford? The man was significantly thinner than John had remembered; John’s entire life, Michael Stamford had been a stout, round fellow. He looked like he’d dropped nearly three stone in the four years John had been gone.

Shaking himself out of his surprise, John managed a proper greeting. “Lord Stamford! Forgive me!”

He reached out a hand and Stamford clasped John’s forearm heartily, and John was surprised at the depth of emotion he saw in the noble’s eyes.

“I hardly recognized you, sir.”

“Yeah, I got thinner,” Stamford joked, with a sad smile. “We’ve all gotten a bit leaner while you were away,” he added, releasing John’s arm and glancing around them both.

“Even my father?” John asked, teasing. His father had always been one to enjoy a good meal, and his endless physical work as a carpenter meant he was nearly always hungry.

John had meant it as a jest, but Stamford’s expression went flat.

Fear shivered over John’s nape, and he leaned forward. “My lord?”

Stamford shifted his weight from foot to foot and could not meet John’s eyes. “I think you’d better go on in. Harry will want to see you straightaway.”

 _Harry?_ John frowned. “You mean Harriet?”

“Harriet, of course. Your sister.”

It’d been a long time since anyone had called his sister ‘Harry’. A tomboy, she had liked the nickname as a child, but once she became an adolescent it was ‘Harriet’ and dances and hair ribbons woven in her long, light brown locks.

John was beginning to feel that, for all it seemed the same, Locksley had changed.

Stamford bid a hasty goodbye, giving John a pat on the back as he spoke, his words fast and anxious. “So glad you’ve come home, John. Thank God for your safe return.” He began to walk away, back towards the manor. “I’ll see you on the morrow.”

“Yes, my lord,” John said to Stamford’s back, but he’d moved so far along the path in his hurry to get away that John doubted he had heard the words.

Turning back to face the door to his childhood home, concern pulled at his features, deepening the lines of his face. His heart was full of questions, yet he feared the answers that awaited him.

He was very ill-prepared indeed.

* * *

He pushed open the door, letting the light of sunset spill inside. A hooded figure sat on a stool at the hearth, deftly removing the undertissue from a rabbit pelt as a pot bubbled over the fire nearby.

“Is the war over, then?” the figure asked, and only then did John recognize his sister.

“ _Harriet?_ ” He rushed forward, dropping his things to the floor and falling to his knees in front of her. His hands grasped at her shoulders with such force that the hood fell back from her head.

Her beautiful long hair had been cut short, the light brown, stringy strands now hanging just below her chin. Her attire was masculine, practical, and patched, the clothes of someone who had little and worked hard. Worst, though, were her eyes, their former brightness now gone cold and hard, the river turned to ice.

Unable to comprehend the changes he saw in her, he asked the next question on his mind. “Where is father?”

“Answer me,” she demanded, her voice flat.

“What happened? Where is--”

“Answer me!” Her sudden change in tone surprised him, her voice going from cold to fiery hot in an instant. “Is it _over_? Is this stupid, bloody, pointless war _over_?” she shouted, and he felt her body shaking beneath his hands.

Suddenly he was flooded with shame, and he glanced downward. “No.”

She stilled, the energy draining out of her in an instant. “So it was all for naught.”

He looked up and saw her eyes turn to ice again behind the tears that shined them.

“You left, you . . . _abandoned_ us. For nothing,” she said.

He wanted to argue; a few years ago he would have easily launched into the reasons why going to fight in the Holy Land was important, noble, even, how it would bring their family honor. But there’d been little honor in what he had been asked to do, and all objections to Harry’s words died in his throat. He softened his voice.

“Harriet--”

She shook her head, determined. “It’s ‘Harry’, now.”

“Harry.” She met his gaze, and though her eyes showed defiance, they also filled with tears. “Harry, what happened? Where is father?”

Her face crumpled, and the breath left him, for he knew what she would say before the words came out of her mouth.

“He’s dead.” The tears spilled now from her eyes, leaving wet tracks down her cheeks. John pulled her into a hug, his strong arms enfolding her without hesitation even though his own heart was breaking, and Harry slid forward from the stool, melting into his embrace as they both knelt at the hearth.

His father. His kind, generous father, who had taught John how to be a friend, how to love without condition, how to build anything from a home to a harp. A man so respected Stamford consulted him in all matters. A man whose gentle touch upon his shoulder could calm John’s temper when nothing else could. Letting his own tears fall, John held his sister as she sobbed against him, the grief and regret sinking into his very bones.

“How—?” He could barely speak the word, his voice distant in his ears.

Pulling away a bit, Harry sniffed and wiped a grubby sleeve across her cheeks and nose.  “ _Murdered_.”

 _Murdered_. John’s heart was pierced anew. His father had been so loved by all, the idea of his life being taken from him was almost too much to believe. John squared his shoulders. “Tell me. Harry, you must tell me everything.”

Harry nodded and stood up. They relocated to the small table within the main room and Harry made them barley tea in silence. Rather than seethe with impatience, John’s senses dulled, the numbness of denial settling over him as he waited. Only once Harry set the wooden mug in front of him did he return to conscious thought, the scent of honey and barley pulling him back.  She cradled her own mug and sat across from him, both of them now settled in chairs his father had made, at the table he’d fashioned with his own hands.

“I am glad you’re back, Johnny,” Harry began, holding out her hand to him across the tabletop, and he fit his fingers around hers, her hand solid in his. “Things have changed so much.”

She sniffled, and shut her eyes a moment, and her fingers closed more tightly around his for a moment. Despite her angry welcome earlier, she seemed grateful for him now. He squeezed her hand in return and she opened her eyes.  

“You remember Moriarty?” she began.

“Lord Moriarty? Of Nottingham?” The Moriarty he remembered had been a spoiled, sadistic young man. They’d never spoken and had only seen each other a few times, when John had gone with his father to market in Nottingham to sell his wares, but John disliked him from the start. A small, odd young nobleman, Moriarty had dark, piercing eyes and a cruel, unpredictable temper. John had seen him torment those below him just for sport on more than one occasion.

“He’s become High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire.”

“That killcow is _Sheriff_?”

“Aye. And he’s more than just crazy, John. He’s clever and he’s dangerous.” Harry’s fingers around his own tightened until they hurt. “The people fear him.” Though she wouldn’t say it, it was clear she feared him, too.

Though it was hard to imagine the people of Locksley being cowed into submission, the more he considered it, the more sense it made--the lack of a hearty welcome, Stamford’s odd behavior, the way people seemed to be keeping to their own houses even on a warm autumn evening. Something was definitely wrong.

Harry continued.  “He has imposed the heaviest of taxes; those who cannot pay are penalized, their property taken, their homes burned. Steal scraps from the castle kitchen? He cuts off your hand. Kill a boar in the royal forest? He has you swing in Nottingham Square.”

“And father?” John could not imagine his father committing any of the crimes Harry described. Bertram of Locksley would have laid down his life before breaking a law of the land.

“One day, Moriarty’s men came and took all the young men, boys, to work in the iron mine. Any who refused, anyone who argued at all was beaten. When father found out . . . Lord Stamford tried to stop him, but . . .”

John gave a little smile, remembering his father’s stubbornness. “Once he had something between his teeth, he never let go.”

Nodding, Harry continued. “He rode like fire to the castle, but . . .” John watched her swallow carefully, fighting her tears. “I found him the next day, tied to the oak at the edge of the pasture. He’d been stabbed through the heart, Moriarty’s banner tied around his neck.”

Harry’s voice broke, and John felt the double sting of the manner of his father’s death and the fact that Harry was the one to find him so dishonored.

“I buried him. Deep in the forest.”

“ _You_ did? Alone?”

“I didn’t want Moriarty to ever know where he was. I didn’t want even that to be taken from me,” she said, her voice fierce, and then she wiped away her tears. “From _us_ ,” she said, giving his hand another squeeze.

He was hit with a wave of appreciation so strong that his eyes burned with unshed tears. Unable to trust his voice not to crack, he gave her a tight nod. His head was a churning sea of grief, but Harry’s warm hand in his anchored him. 

“You’ve traveled far. You must be hungry.” She released his hand and rose, picking up a bowl and spoon from the shelf nearby and moving near the fire. A low rumble came from John’s belly as Harry swung the iron pot away from the fire and the hunger rolled inside him, physical need superseding his emotions for an instant. She ladled thick, fragrant stew from the pot and brought the bowl over to him. Steam rose in tendrils from the bowl, and yet John took little notice, his senses dulled.

Not waiting for it to cool, John brought a spoonful to his mouth, closing his eyes as he ate to blink away his tears. The meat was tender and nearly fell apart on its own as he chewed, but its flavor was unexpected.

With a sense of dread, he opened his eyes to see Harry eyeing him curiously.

“What’s the matter? Do you not like it?”

He looked down at his bowl and stirred it, toying with the cubes of meat in the thick broth. “This is venison.”

She lifted her chin. “And what of it?”

After what she had just told him about the consequences of poaching in the royal woods, John marveled at her cavalier attitude. “If you get caught, you said yourself--you’ll hang.”

“Well, I’ll just not get caught then.” She shrugged, a feeble attempt at nonchalance. He gave her a reproachful glare and her tone grew defiant. “He’s left us no choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

Anger widened her eyes. “Then I choose not to starve!”

 _Was it really down to that?_ John wondered, but he held his tongue, reluctant to stoke her ire again. She seemed already to regret her words, the fire in her dying as quickly as it had flared.

“Eat whilst you can, John.” A quiet disappointment flashed over her features before she turned away, heading for the back of their home. “You can have father’s room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU to i_ship_an_armada, destinationtoast, antietamfalls, and somebodyswatson for all their beta help for this chapter and to numerous others who expressed their enthusiasm overall for the idea of "hoodlock", including the talented bluebellofbakerstreet who already made [art of John as Robin Hood](http://bluebellofbakerstreet.tumblr.com/post/152452044980)! Hugs for everyone.


	2. Chapter 2

From this high up in the castle, which was already perched on an enormous sandstone promontory, one could not only survey the courtyard of the upper bailey but observe all the commotion of the market outside the large lower bailey as well. The vendors were already bartering and selling, and goods travelled in and out of the maingate throughout the early morning hours.

_Dull_.

The man lifted his gaze, letting his eyes wander over the vast woods surrounding Nottingham Castle in all directions. From his vantage point the whole of the Midlands seemed a sea of green and gold, a gently undulating carpet of trees.

_Hateful._

Lost in thought where he stood at the window, he did not so much as turn his head when the older woman entered his room.

“Oh, Master Sherlock! The mess you’ve made!” She tutted as she went about the large room, tidying up with an efficiency and speed that belied her age. He ignored her with ease--after all, Mistress Hudson had been tutting over him in much the same way since he was a boy--but when she reached the table nearest him, he took notice.

“Mind the parchment.”

“Hmph,” she said in disapproval, but she left the contents of the table alone, focusing instead on setting the jumble of bed linens to rights.

Sherlock turned from the window and focused his gaze on the work he had laid out on the table--the bits of resin and quicklime, the well-used ceramic crucible. Next to a reservoir of iron gall ink and the goose feather quill he’d fashioned himself lay many pieces of parchment. Charts and notations, measurements and the names of minerals crawled across the pages in his flowing script.

The formula eluded him, as it had many times before, and each time he endeavored again to discern the right ingredients, the proper ratios, he failed.

Frowning at the papers, he gathered them with angry, pale fingers and stuffed them into the crucible. A bit of charcloth and a scrape of steel against flint, and soon enough the parchment caught flame, and Sherlock’s silver blue eyes watched the work of half a year burn.

The scent of the parchment burning, akin to the acrid smell of charred meat, interrupted Mistress Hudson’s progress and she turned to look.

“Master Sherlock! Your papers!” She hurried over, but he lifted a hand and she stopped near the table, holding her hands together as though to keep herself from reaching out to douse the flames.

“Let it burn.”

“But . . . all your work, up in smoke!”

He couldn’t help the ironic grin that pulled up a corner of his lips. “If only.”

* * *

Harry touched John’s shoulder as they stood side by side, deep within the forest. She bent to leave a bunch of harebells tied with one of her former hair ribbons at the base of the cross, and the downward-pointing blooms seemed to bow their blue heads in mourning.

“I’ll let you . . .”

John looked over to her when she trailed off, and she rose to standing. He could see the tears forming in her eyes.

“I’ll see you back at the house,” she said, and without another word she turned and walked back the way they’d come, her booted feet tracing the path to Locksley. Calling it a path was generous. Only those utterly familiar with the pattern of trees in this area would have been able to find it--Harry had chosen the most secluded section of forest in which to bury their father.

John watched her retreating figure, thinking she looked more like a young man out hunting than a young woman in mourning, with her brown hooded cowl and her full quiver and bow--for only a fool went into the woods without protection. John had never believed the stories that Sherwood was haunted, but there were plenty of mundane dangers to respect in the forest.

He set down his own bow now and stepped forward. The grave was marked with a small but handsome wooden cross, the workmanship easily recognizable to John as that of his father. This cross had been a study, a smaller model for an enormous cross his father had made for the chapel at the castle, and it had hung in their home for years.

Without further thought, John sank to his knees, one hand reaching out. Calloused fingers rode over the ridges and grooves of the carved wood, and his eyes stung with tears as he thought how his father’s own fingers had doubtless glided over the cross in the same manner.

There was too much to say, and yet nothing he could say. The words refused to form in his mouth.

In the end, the vow he swore was a silent one.

He would protect and provide for his sister. And he would find the mongrel who murdered his father and lodge an arrow in his black and twisted heart.

* * *

Not one to lament starting over from scratch, Sherlock dressed in his plainest garb and sturdiest boots, all of which still revealed his status as a noble, but he’d take care of that soon enough. He peered out the window one more time-- _market day, stalls nearly full up; better hurry to get the best selection_. He’d need ingredients, feathers, shears, knives, and loads of new parchment to begin his experiments anew.

He ignored Mistress Hudson and slipped out the door of his room, leather soles whisper quiet against the stone floor. With any luck, he’d easily slip past--

“How now, little brother?”

_Damn_.

Sherlock turned slowly, standing at his full height. He was an inch shorter than his brother, but if he stood up straight and his black curls atop his head cooperated, he appeared taller.

“Good morning, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, his voice as welcoming as an adder’s hiss.

“Awake so early?”

Sherlock lifted his chin. “Never slept, actually.”

“I see. Another failure.” Mycroft looked away at the floor as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. The way his brother could read him, could read the whole night’s efforts within seconds, galled him. “Off to spend a small fortune at market?”

Smirking, Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “Oh, don’t pretend to care, brother dear. As long as I stay away from court, far from your machinations, you don’t care a whit what I do, or where, or with whom.”

Unable to argue, Mycroft ticked up one corner of his mouth and gave a nod. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

Sherlock simply glared. He’d been understanding for a very long time.

“Run along, then. Though, the Sheriff has requested your presence at dinner this evening.”

He made no attempt to hide the rolling of his eyes. “I’ll send my regrets.”

“You’ll attend,” Mycroft said, his tone changing from condescending to firm. “It behooves us to humor the Sheriff at this time.”

“You mean it behooves _you_.”

Mycroft frowned. “Don’t be obtuse, Sherlock. He is a powerful man, and worse, a mercurial one. He could express his displeasure with you in a myriad of discomfiting ways, the least of which would be to restrict your access in and out of this very castle.”

Sherlock’s nose crinkled as his lips pulled up into something between a smile and a snarl. “I’d like to see him try.”

With that, Sherlock turned on his heel and left his brother, making his long way down to the kitchens.

* * *

Harry’s tread light along the forest floor, her booted feet barely made a sound amid the leaf litter. She hardly had to try to keep herself silent now; John might have been proud of her if he had bothered to notice.

She knew she ought to pause this uncharitable chain of thought, but she’d never been much good at controlling her mind where loved ones were concerned. That would hardly change now that John was back.

Not that he was really back, exactly. The man who had returned was much altered from the brother she had known. Darker, somehow. A bit broken. There was a desolation bordering on hopelessness in his eyes, one she could recognize because it mirrored her own. Neither one of them had profited from their separate adventures.

In their youth they had adventured together, the two years in age between them only serving to make Harry more determined to keep up with her older brother. By the time she was twelve she could hunt and build and shoot as well as he could, and weave and cook besides, and always he seemed proud of her, glad to have her at his side. When she matured, when she began to concern herself with ribbons and romance, he did not tease, and he was sympathetic when she admitted her attraction to both men and women, a proclivity he shared as well.

When he left for the war, when her father was killed--

She realized she had been in double mourning for a long time. And now that John was back, broken though they both were, maybe they could help each other mend.

She did not notice the time passing, was barely even aware of how far she had walked, and when she looked up, she was surprised to find herself very close to Locksley.

A movement caught her eye, and several yards ahead she saw it--a stag. His brown fur hid him well, his crown of antlers mimicking the branches of a tree, but Harry could spot a dove in a fog. She halted her steps, and the stag looked up from his grazing, his dark, round eyes locked on hers.

He was hardly a young buck, his hide scarred and greying. He had lived in this forest longer than most--a survivor, like her. She considered him a moment, debating whether to draw an arrow from her quiver, but not for long. Such a kill could feed all of Locksley for some time.

The arrow left her bow with a whisper. Its point struck the stag’s chest, Harry’s aim impeccable, and he fell.

When she reached his side, the life was already leaving his eyes. She knelt and pulled off her glove so that she could cup the animal’s head in her palm.

“I thank you for your sacrifice,” she whispered as the great animal gave his last breath. “May the Lord and Lady greet you in the Summerland.”

“You can greet him there yourself, thief.”

Harry spun to face the graveled voice, shocked that anyone had been able to sneak up on her unawares, but her movement was halted by large hands gripping her shoulders and hauling her upwards. His grasp was firm, but Harry was strong, and she thrust an elbow backwards into the man’s side. He buckled just enough for her to twist away, out of his grip, but when she turned to run, she felt the prick of sharpened steel on her back and she froze.

“Turn around,” another, calmer, voice ordered.

For an instant, Harry considered her chances. She could run, but these men were verderers, the royal guards of the forest. Once loyal to the king, they now served only Moriarty. They were cruel, but not without skill. They’d snuck up on her and she was well caught.

She turned slowly to face the second man, his cold eyes peering back at her. He lowered his sword as the first guard moved behind Harry and secured her wrists. She didn’t struggle, did not so much as flinch as the man in front of her shoved the hood back from her head to reveal her angry face, strands of her hair falling over her eyes and cheeks.

No sign of surprise crossed his features.

“What’s your name, boy?”

She kept silent, her eyes focused on his in defiance.

The man frowned. “No matter. It’s the noose for you all the same.” He lifted his chin to his companion. “Bring him.”

* * *

When John passed the spot, he knew, could read the leaves, the stag’s blood on the earth. When he returned, running, to Locksley, he barely needed to ask Mistress Jeanette what happened. She pulled onions in her yard as she told him the story of the guardsmen dragging Harry away, her voice resigned and flat.

* * *

Sherlock moved through the market, but his costume and carriage were both so unlike his own that now no one would confuse him for a noble. A trip through the castle, down through the kitchens, and Sherlock had transformed himself. He used soot to dust his pale face and smooth hands, working it under and around his nails. A side trek through the hog yard muddied his boots and provided cover in the form of a negligent workman’s unattended cloak, appropriately patched and worn. A change in his gait and a bit of a stoop and the younger Lord Holmes became a commoner. Sherlock slipped into the stream of shoppers outside the lower bailey and headed towards the stationer’s.

* * *

Stamford wrung his hands together as he stood watching John gather his arrows, checking the points and fletching as he filled his leather quiver.

“You can’t hope to fight your way in,” Stamford said.

“No.”

“The Sheriff’s not known for his patience. He’ll want to make an example of her . . .” Stamford swallowed. “She’ll most likely be executed publicly. The gallows inside the upper bailey.”

John pushed out his lips and nodded. He gave a mirthless smile and then pulled the quiver over his head, tightening the strap firmly across his chest.

“John, think. If you’re captured, you’ll hang as well.”

“I know.”

“If you’re seen, they’ll come after you. You won’t be able to return to Locksley.”

John looked around the room, the hearth where the stew pot hung ready, the table where his family had gathered so many times, his father’s hooded cowl which hung on a peg near the door as if he were just come home from hunting. He remembered his mother dyeing the wool a rich Lincoln green, stitching it together with her clever, nimble fingers. An adherent of the old ways, she’d embroidered symbols of protection and good fortune along its hems in black and gold.

He loved Locksley. He loved this house, this home. But he loved Harry far more, and it would be no home at all without her.

He stepped over to the doorway, grabbing the cowl and pulling it over his head, adjusting the quiver through the slit in the back, the arrows easily accessible. He pulled the deep hood over his head, shading his face.

“Then I won’t be seen.”

* * *

Sherlock frowned at the merchant, a brown-skinned man with neatly trimmed facial hair and a jaunty hat perched over his keen eyes.

“Meldrick.”

The man matched his tone perfectly. “Master Sherlock.”

“You charge more for your ink than any other vendor in the market.”

“I know it.”

“Surely, a shrewd businessman can see the value of remaining competitive--”

“Save your shiny words,” Meldrick said with a wave of his hand. “I’ve got the best ink from here to London town and you know it. You’re lucky I’ve any left to sell you, what with the Sheriff . . .” He paused, his eyes darting left and right.

Sherlock softened a bit. He knew of Meldrick’s troubles with the Sheriff, the way his men came and raided his stores, confiscating his wares as payment of tax in the king’s name. Meldrick was a craftsman, could create the finest vellum, ink that stayed black for decades. Were he in London, he’d be earning a tidy sum and be able to keep his family comfortable and safe. But in Nottingham, he could barely earn enough to keep them fed. Though Sherlock loved to haggle, especially with Meldrick, who knew it was a game and could play as well as he, the enjoyment of it waned in the face of the harsh reality of living under the Sheriff’s thumb.

“Well. You’d better give me all of it, then,” Sherlock said.

Meldrick raised one eyebrow--all of it would add up to a significant pile of coin--but he said nothing, just pursed his lips and packed up the little bottles of ink. Sherlock often paid a bit extra for information and gossip, but the number of coins he passed over to Meldrick now was beyond the usual arrangement.

As Sherlock reached for the package Meldrick held out for him, a scuffle in the road behind him drew his attention. Four of the Sherrif’s men escorted an outlaw along the path, a young, short person in a brown cowl who was dragging their feet and getting prodded in the back with a sword for their defiance. One of the guards was favoring his right leg a bit, and another had a nasty scratch along his jaw.

Meldrick began explaining before Sherlock could even turn to ask. “Poacher. Brought him in about an hour ago and threw him in the dungeon but he escaped, if you can believe it. Guards caught him outside the lower bailey.”

Knowing the Sheriff’s attitude towards fugitives and inferring the guards’ destination, Sherlock was certain of the outlaw’s fate.

“Straight to the gallows now, I’d wager,” Meldrick said, the way one might forecast rain.

Sherlock’s eyes tracked the outlaw and the guards as they made their way towards the upper bailey. A small crowd was gathering behind them, for there were always those who would watch a hanging, morbid curiosity for most, a duty to bear witness for some. But one figure in the crowd moved with another intent, and drew Sherlock’s attention--a short man in a hood of Lincoln green.


	3. Chapter 3

Interest piqued, Sherlock tracked the man in the green hood as he slipped in with the crowd following the doomed poacher.

“Send everything with Billy,” he said over his shoulder to Meldrick, who nodded, used to Sherlock’s eccentricities.

“Take care, my lord,” he advised, taking the bottles of ink from Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock grinned. “Take care? When there’s finally something interesting happening?”

Meldrick shook his head a little but smiled in return, and Sherlock turned away to follow the man in green.

He hurried to catch up to the crowd, blending in with the stragglers at the back as they marched towards the castle. The guards at the maingate paid no mind, for Moriarty encouraged spectators for his version of justice, and the growing mob passed freely.

_Idiots_. The man in green was clearly armed and not there just to gawk at yet another public execution. As the crowd crossed the courtyard, Sherlock slowed his pace. The man in green slowed as well--and then doubled back.

Sherlock stopped along the edge of the courtyard, seeming to attend to a wagon of goods stowed nearby. Guessing the man’s trajectory, Sherlock looked over to the lone guard who blocked the staircase to the top of the curtain wall. He must be new; he leaned lazily against the stone wall, keeping his body as much in the shadows as possible to avoid the heat of the sun, and did not notice the man in green coming towards him until it was too late.  Sherlock watched as the man approached--and landed a fierce punch to the guard’s right side. The guard doubled over in pain, and the man pushed off his helm and landed another blow to his head, knocking him down. Sherlock raised an eyebrow; the man in green was small, easy to overlook, but Sherlock could see he had not only strength, but skill. Dispatching a trained guard so quietly and efficiently took training--and daring.

The man looked around, and Sherlock averted his gaze a moment, pretending to adjust the crates in the wagon. When he looked again, both the man and the guard were gone.

By now the crowd was chattering loudly, and all were focused on the spectacle of the prisoner being led up to the gallows--all but Sherlock, who took advantage of the distraction to make his way over to the foot of the stairs.

The guard was there, alive but unconscious, stowed in the shadows. Though Sherlock heard no footfalls above, there was only one way the man in green could have gone. Sherlock climbed the stairs.

As he neared the the top, he found another guard disposed of. Sherlock stopped a few steps from the landing.

The man in green stood near the parapet, looking down over the courtyard. He was several inches shorter than Sherlock, his wide stance making him seem smaller still, yet Sherlock could see the strength in his compact frame, the way he held his body like a coiled snake about to strike. An arrow was nocked in the string of his curved bow, and his green hood had fallen back, revealing the man’s short, golden hair, his handsome but troubled face.

In a heartbeat, Sherlock noted where the man’s eyes were focused, the intention in his shoulders.  He knew exactly why the man had come.

Sherlock stepped forward, climbing the last few steps. “You’ll need a distraction.”

Eyes betraying a mere instant of surprise, the man turned towards Sherlock, aiming the arrow at his chest. His right hand was steady, ready to pull back on the bowstring. “You volunteering?”

Clearly, the man had nerves of steel, despite his agitation, and Sherlock smiled. The man’s eyes scanned Sherlock from head to foot, and Sherlock could see the calculations being made in his dark blue eyes. Though the man remained alert, he eased his stance and lowered the arrow.

“I haven’t time to--”

“No, of course not,” Sherlock said, stepping closer though the man remained fully armed. The man obviously had determined Sherlock was not a threat and therefore had no real intention of harming him. “You’re clearly trying to save the poacher, and the Sheriff does not delay his murders with protocol or procedure.”

He saw the man’s eyebrow raise at his use of the word ‘murders’, but consternation returned to his features.

“How did you know why I’m here?”

“I didn’t know, I saw.”

The man blinked at him. Sherlock inhaled quickly and explained, his words tumbling out of his mouth.

“Condition of your shoes, clothes, means you’re a yeoman at best, but hair, posture, stance, the way you dispensed with two armed castle guards within ninety seconds mean you have military training. You’re no knight, so, veteran of actual combat, then.” He gestured to John’s arm. “The way your sleeve is secured and the recurve design of your bow indicate you are an experienced archer back from the wars in the Holy Land. You had an arrow aimed directly at the gallows and since it makes little sense to kill someone who is about to be executed, the prisoner is not your target.”

Sherlock looked directly at the man, almost defying him to dismiss him or curse him, as so many others had done before.

“Fantastic,” the man said, his eyes wide. A small smile parted his thin lips, and Sherlock felt a flutter in his belly.

_Unexpected._

He tamped down the flutter and looked over to the courtyard.  “No time for compliments,” Sherlock said. The man turned his head to look over at the gallows, where the hangman tested the knots affixing the ropes to the overhead beam. The smile dropped from the man’s face, his eyes turning to steel.

“Do not impede me,” the man said simply, and he turned his body to aim his arrow at the hangman.

_Interesting_.

Determination radiated out from the man like heat. Sherlock had no doubt he would be true to his word, and a shiver of giddy excitement ran through Sherlock’s body. “Impede you? I’ll _assist_ you.”

The man frowned. “What stake have you in this?”

Sherlock considered before answering, unwilling to admit that his main motivation was that the man intrigued him. “I have a stake in anything that will irritate the Sheriff.”

The man cocked his head. “You’ll like this, then.”

“What’s your plan? As I said, you’ll need a distra-- _oh_.”

The man shifted his weight.

“ _You’re_ the distraction.”

Dark blue eyes flicked away, and Sherlock knew he’d deduced it correctly.

“You’re going to shoot the hangman and give the poacher a chance to escape while the guards run up here to capture you.”

Lifting his chin, the man swallowed, and Sherlock’s eyes zeroed in on his throat, watching it shift and contract.

“You’re an idiot.” The man frowned, but Sherlock continued. “That’s a terrible plan. You’ll both end up dead and Moriarty won’t suffer one whit.”

“My life doesn’t matter.”

“No?” The man’s voice was strained, but his eyes were sincere. Self-sacrifice, then. “But the poacher’s life matters, correct?”

The hangman fashioned the noose.

“Well, what do you suggest, then?” the man barked, fear beginning to creep into his voice.

Sherlock peered over the edge of the parapet discreetly and surveyed the courtyard. He pulled something from his pocket as he spoke. “That wagon of hay, on the far side?” Sherlock reached for the man’s quiver, and, surprisingly, the man allowed him to remove an arrow. Sherlock bent low and quickly tied a scrap of charcloth to the arrowhead. The man stowed the arrow he’d had nocked and crouched down near Sherlock. Sherlock glanced up and saw the glimmer in the man’s eyes, how he began to follow Sherlock’s line of thinking.

“Have you a horse?” Sherlock asked.

“Horses are easily stolen.”

“Outside the maingate, the big bay with the star--he’s well-trained and fast.”

The man nodded.

“So, set the hay wagon on fire. Guards scramble to put it out, giving you enough time to shoot the hangman and run down to rescue the poacher.”

Following Sherlock’s thoughts perfectly, the man added, “Then fight our way out. Steal the horse.”

“Obviously.”

The man gave him a crooked smile.

“Brilliant,” the man said, his dark blue eyes sparkling. “You’re a gift from God, sir.”

Sherlock blinked at him. In the whole of his adult life, no one had ever lauded him so, not sincerely, and certainly not accompanied by the genuine smile that crossed the man’s face. Before he could fashion a reply, the man clapped him on the the shoulder and then stood up to look over the wall. Momentarily stunned from the easy appreciation the man had offered, Sherlock rose slowly, his head still in a fog. This man was soon to be an outlaw, if he survived at all, and here Sherlock found himself . . . involved.

“Sherlock,” he blurted.

The man glanced back at him. “What?”

“My name. Sherlock. Of Beeston.”

“Oh.” The man pursed his lips and gave a little nod. “John of Locksley.”

Sherlock blinked again, clearing his head, and remembered the task at hand. He gave the prepared arrow over to John, who set it into his bowstring.

“Now,” Sherlock said, more statement than question, and he scraped his flint and steel to light the charcloth aflame.  With unerring precision, John drew the bowstring and released the fiery arrow, and they both watched it sail, unnoticed, over the courtyard in an arc. It lodged directly in the center of the pile of dry hay.

The fire caught, the flames tiny but perceptible, yet not large enough to draw notice from the figures gathered around the gallows. Sherlock and John looked over to the hangman--he was fitting the noose around the poacher’s neck.

“Sherlock--”

“Follow me!”

Without waiting, Sherlock turned and ran towards the staircase, descending it at breakneck pace, John on his heels. At the base, Sherlock stopped, grabbing John by the shoulders to halt him and draw him close.

“It will take exactly one minute for the hangman to declare the charges,” he hissed against John’s ear, lips nearly brushing against John’s cheek. “Stay at the back of the crowd. Wait for your moment,” He released him just as suddenly, and then walked out into the courtyard, away from the curtain wall.

Not daring to glance backward, Sherlock walked with a calm pace towards the hay wagon. Once there, he leaned against the side of it, playing the bored spectator. His keen eyes found John easily in the crowd. He was lingering at the back, bow held low and somewhat hidden against his side.

The hangman began to cry out the charges.

Sherlock smelled smoke.

He turned and, certain no one was watching, he blew on the small fire within the hay. The flames grew, and the burning hay began to crackle.

“Fire!” Sherlock shouted.

Only a few people turned to look.

“ _Fire!_ ” Sherlock bellowed, pulling at a young bystander. Luckily, the boy was as unwise and mischievous as he looked. He gaped at Sherlock, and then at the wagon, the smoke beginning to curl up into the air. The boy climbed up the side of the wagon wheel, gleefully hollered “Fire!”, and then promptly began to blow on the burning hay.

Stepping away, Sherlock moved towards the crowd again, using his cloak and his slouched posture to blend in as a commoner once more.

By now, the flames were much higher, and people were finally looking. A fire within the castle walls was no small thing, and the guards appeared to wake as if from a slumber, the smell of burning hay spurring them into action. They began to shout orders, calling for water as they hurried towards the wagon, and Sherlock moved closer to the platform.

The hangman paused--and John took his shot.

Sherlock watched as one arrow pierced the wooden beam over the poacher’s head. The point had severed the rope where it was tied to the beam, and the noose now hung loosely around the poacher’s neck.

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose in delight, and he caught John’s eye. _Good shot._

John gave him a nod, and then rushed into the crowd, running towards the gallows. The poacher, hands tied behind his back, threw his body against the hangman, sending him flying into the crowd to Sherlock’s right. Amid the chaos, the poacher jumped forward onto the ground. He landed on his feet, but slipped forward onto his knees from the momentum. He would have pitched forward completely, unable to halt his motion with his hands tied behind his back, but Sherlock grasped his shoulders to keep him upright.

“Thanks,” the poacher said, hazel eyes peering out at Sherlock through the dangling strands of hair that covered his face.

Sherlock, a short knife in his grip, moved to the poacher’s hands.

“May I?” he asked, though he was already cutting the rope.

“Please,” the poacher answered.

Something niggled at Sherlock’s brain, but there was no time to chase the thought. Hands now free, the poacher sprang up and pushed through the crowd, making a beeline for John. Sherlock’s eyes followed him and sought John’s gaze.

Dark blue eyes looked back at him. John moved his fist to his chest in silent thanks, and then turned and ran.

By the time Sherlock pushed his way over to the maingate with the rest of the crowd, he saw only two figures upon the big bay horse, disappearing into the narrow streets of Nottingham town.

* * *

John pulled on the reins, slowing the horse from a canter to a stop. They’d ridden hard since town, the horse’s hide glistening with sweat and his own heart thumping madly. They were inside the forest now, mostly hidden within a grove of beech trees, and a small creek dribbled along a few feet ahead of them.

“That was stupid,” Harry said, pulling her arms away from John’s waist and sliding off the horse’s back.

John snorted. “You’re welcome.” He dismounted as well and led the horse over to the creek. The bay bent down his great head and began to drink immediately.

“Who goes into the lion’s den like that?” she demanded, kneeling at the creek’s edge. She plunged her hands into the water, letting it run over the raw marks on her wrists.

“Who kills a stag in the royal forest only a hundred yards from Locksley?”

She glared at him for that, but he just crouched and filled his leather canteen.

“Well, who storms a castle all on his own?” she continued.

A grin crossed John’s lips. “Actually, I wasn’t on my own.”

“You weren’t?”

John averted his gaze and took a long sip.

“Who?” Harry demanded with a slap on John’s arm, but John ignored her, bending to refill the canteen.

“Oh!” Harry gasped. “The man who cut my ropes? The one with the sparkling eyes and the lips shaped like your bow?”

John glanced over at her then, and she was, of course, smiling entirely too much. She had always teased him whenever he showed interest in someone--and to be fair, he teased her just as much for the same--but he had spent only mere minutes with Sherlock! It hardly added up to being _interested_ in the man.

Though she was right about his eyes. And his lips.

“Shut up and get the horse,” he grumbled, though it lacked fire.

“He’s thirsty!”

“He’ll get colicky. Come on.”

He didn’t need to look at her to know she was rolling her eyes at him, but she went over and took up the reins, pulling the bay away from the creek. They fell into step together, the horse trailing behind them at a gentle walk.

“You have some sort of plan?” she asked.

“We need to get to the Cauldron Tree. Stamford stowed some supplies for us.”

“Stamford? He was always the one telling us to stay away from the heart of the forest, all those stories about ghosts and witches.”

“Yeah.” Most residents of Nottingham feared the deep forest, and Stamford had often used tales of monsters to scare children and adults alike out of venturing too far into the woods. But it was a measure of his friendship and loyalty that he did not hesitate when John had asked him for help.

“I guess there was something he feared more,” John said, sniffing. “Didn’t want you to die and all that.”

He cleared his throat and thrust the full canteen at Harry. Out the corner of his eye he saw her smile, and he knew he was not fooling her, though she was kind enough to ignore the sudden hoarseness of his voice. Harry took the canteen from him, and he was grateful she knew better than to say thank you.

Later, when she slipped her hand into his, he let her, and they continued walking together, deeper into the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big smooches to my lovely betas for putting up with my impatience and giving me such valuable feedback. ♥


End file.
